That's What You'll Take to the Grave
by Mediancat
Summary: Six weeks after The Sum of Their Parts, Daria Faith Morgendorffer goes on a road trip back to Texas.
1. Cycle of Life

Author's Note: A fairly short story, at least in comparison to _April 10, 1997_ and _The Sum of Their Parts_.

Disclaimer: The _Buffy_ characters were created by Joss Whedon, the _Daria_ ones by Glenn Quinn, and the original ones -- Dr. Lynette Vaughn, Cameron Kim, and Willard Jay Harbaugh -- by me.

_so roll out the head of faye tucker_

_yeah well never you mind what they say_

_well you may be reborn_

_but it's all just for scorn_

_and that's what you'll take to the grave_

_that's what you'll take to the grave_

_-- _The Indigo Girls, _Faye Tucker_

X X X X X

"Are you sure?" Dr. Lynette Vaughn asked.

"I'm sure," Daria Faith Morgendorffer said.

"I could go with you."

Angel said, "Any of us could go with you." Cameron Kim echoed the sentiment.

"Look. It ain't as though I don't appreciate the offers. But Doc, you have patients, and Angel, you have a nest of Burchells' dealing drugs to take care of. You can do without me for a few days. And Cameron: Again, thank you. But I think my trip would be better if I weren't constantly dodging Wolfram & Hart assassins. Call me crazy. But I've already dealt with one gauntlet." Over a month after Cameron had resigned, Wolfram & Hart still wasn't taking it well.

Lilah Morgan, at least according to Angel, had laughed herself silly at Cameron's method of getting out of her lifetime contract. From everything Angel could determine, she actually had nothing to do with the attempts on Cameron's life.

She hadn't done anything to prevent them, either. Gavin Park, who'd always gotten along with Cameron about as well as PETA and McDonald's, was directing their efforts at revenge, and directing them with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Their top priority, at the moment, was getting the attacks to stop. More than once Angel had encouraged the shapeshifter to get the hell out of Dodge, but she'd declined, saying that A, she was better-protected here than she was almost anywhere else, and B, she had a job to do, and she wasn't going to let Wolfram & Hart's lack of respect for contracts drive her off.

"Nice of you to offer," Daria said, just in case she'd hurt Cameron's feelings. "Really. I appreciate it. But this is something I have to do myself."

"And how were you planning to get to Livingston, Texas?" Angel asked.

"While you weren't looking, I went and got myself a driver's license."

"Daria," Angel said reproachfully.

"Right. I got a forged one. I went to the DMV, took the written and the road tests, passed with flying colors, and then said, 'Hey, no thanks. I'd rather pick one up from Fat Tony.' I appreciate your assessment of my moral compass."

"I didn't mean –"

"Yeah, you did. But I'm not taking it personally. I'm still trying to figure me out sometimes. Occasionally I feel very much like Daria Morgendorffer, and then there's those times I'm all Faith, all the time. I can hardly blame you for not having a handle on me when it's a handle I lack myself. Just remember. Faith was reformed, more or less, and Daria was never more than mischievous. It's not likely I'm going to be worse than the combination."

Apologetically, Angel said, "Point taken. You're right." Then he said, "Still. Slayers and cars."

"What about Slayers and cars?" Doc Vaughn asked.

"They don't go well together, from all I've heard. Buffy still hasn't passed her driver's test, and at one point Giles mentioned to me that none of the other Slayers were able to learn. Some of them did try."

"Interesting," Daria said. "Still, I'd like to point out the ass you're making out of you and me."

"Huh?" Angel said.

"Assume," Cameron Kim said. "What's the assumption?'

"That I'll be driving a car."

X X X X X

She'd showed them the motorcycle – Angel had to look from the Hyperion lobby, it being daylight. He wasn't desperate enough for a look at the bike that he was willing to burst into flames.

Too bad, because it was a kickass bike. Safe and fast. She felt like she could do 0-60 in nanoseconds.

Still, while Daria loved getting the thing out on the open road, and part of her just wanted to see how fast she could go, she very carefully went with the flow of traffic. She wasn't going to waste her money on speeding tickets.

She pulled to a stop somewhere on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona, and checked into a Holiday Inn.

Then she went out to explore the nightlife.

Not clubbing; she didn't do that. Seemed that while she was looser than the old Daria, she was a damn sight tighter than Faith. Willing to socialize, sure. Willing to go out and be seen occasionally, no problem. Going out just for the sake of getting guys worked to want to do something she wasn't going to do anymore, no. Daria Faith Morgendorffer was going to wait until she was ready.

And that level of intimacy was going to be hard to reach. When there were exactly four people in her life she felt even close to that level of closeness with, and three of them were women (and she was as straight as a bowling alley), and the fourth was Angel (and their shared would never be brought up again; too many people could be hurt.)

No, this was the other kind of night life. The kind that sucked blood and frequently looked as though it dressed on the strict instructions of Anne Rice and Laurell K. Hamilton. Daria'd once enjoyed Hamilton; she'd never liked Rice. Her opinion was, if she wanted to read porn, she'd read porn. She didn't need to read porn pretending to be something else.

She found three vampires. Her fights with them were so perfunctory as not to be worth recounting. She'd gone out a bit on her own, both while B was training her, and once she got back to LA. She'd also helped Angel Investigations a few times. Basically, she was now confident in her Slaying abilities.

Satisfied that she'd made nights in Tucson marginally safer, Daria went back to the hotel and called Doc Vaughn. "Are you doing okay?"

"I only broke two legs," Daria said. Then, smiling faintly, she said, "Fortunately, they were all on other people." The line was from Charles Schulz. If you must steal, steal from the best.

"You're safe?"

"Yeah, Doc. I'm safe. And don't think I didn't appreciate you being willing to come along on the trip. But this is something I have to do by myself."

"I thought you'd already come to terms with it," Doc Vaughn said.

"I have," Daria said. "Call it closure; call it making sure things go full circle. Besides, it'll give me an opportunity to stop off at Highland. Call me sentimental. I think I should visit my parents' and sister's graves at least once."

"I think even you'll be forgiven that sentiment," Doc Vaughn. "So tomorrow you stop off in Highland, and then the next day you'll be in Livingston."

"And that night, Willard Jay Harbaugh gets executed. And I'll watch the man who killed Jake, Helen, and Quinn Morgendorffer die."


	2. I Contain Multitudes

Author's Note: I couldn't write the dialogue of the characters doing the cameo. I never watched that show. But I had to mention them.

Disclaimer: I created Lynette Vaughn, Glenn Eichler created Daria Morgendorffer, Joss Whedon created Faith Lehane, and the cameo characters aren't mine, either.

_Your actions will follow you full circle round  
Your actions will follow you full circle round  
Your actions will follow you full circle round  
Your actions will follow you full circle round  
"The higher the leap," I said,  
"The harder the ground._"

_-- Center Stage_, The Indigo Girls

X X X X X

"Still against the death penalty?" Dr. Vaughn asked.

"Still. I think. But there's a difference between theory and practice. Again, if this makes me a hypocrite, very well. I am large, I contain multitudes. I'm thinking, though, that even if I end up against it I ain't going to be doing too much mourning for Willard Jay Harbaugh."

"I doubt many people will. He murdered thirteen people -- and from accounts hasn't shown a single speck of remorse. He's not Karla Faye Tucker."

"Ah. The pretty young white Christian woman whom there was the big outcry in favor of. I'm guessing she was executed sometime between my disappearance and reappearance."

"You don't remember?" Doc Vaughn asked.

"Faith Lehane was never exactly big on keeping up with national news," Daria said.

"Yes. Sometime in 1998."

"Thank you. Well, I guess the governor was consistent, if nothing else."

Then Doc Vaughn showed that she hadn't picked up her psychiatrist's degree out of a Cracker Jack box. "You're going to try to figure out your own feelings, aren't you?" she said. "I am large; I contain multitudes is a good soundbite, but I know things have to be deeper than that. You're trying to figure out whether you're being a hypocrite."

Damn, the woman had brains. "Yes. I guess. Partially. You have to remember also that I'm dealing with the memories of killing three people, myself. One was an accident, but the other two weren't. And there was a rush there, Doc. it's one of the reasons Angel was able to reach me when no one else could. He also knew, because of his history. If he hasn't told you, you may want to ask him. But make sure you haven't eaten anything. You may think I exaggerate. Believe me, I wish I was. Anyway, you see why this is a touch more complicated for me than most people. I know what it's like to take joy in ending someone else's life. I wish to hell I didn't. It's a loathsome, vile feeling. And yes, I was 'someone else' at the time, but I still have the memories. I'm not saying I'm the same as Willard Jay Harbaugh. Not in the least. But I can, to a small extent, understand where he's coming from. Hell, I can even get what it's like to know someone else wants you dead."

"Buffy?"

"Buffy," Daria said. "And it ain't like I can blame her. Hell, at the time, Faith was doing her best to get herself killed. Suicide by vampire. Not one of the more popular methods. But perhaps if they had a better marketing campaign."

"You felt guilt," Doc Vaughn said. "That makes you better than Harbaugh right there."

"I wasn't worried about whether I was better than him. Even at Faith's worst I was better than him. It's -- well. If I'm having difficulty articulating it to myself, how can I be expected to tell you? You're right that 'I am large, I contain multitudes' is something of a copout. It's also the literal truth, even if it ain't exactly the way Walt Whitman meant it. But that's one of the benefits of out postmodern society: We're always able to squeeze new insights out of the ancients."

"Like me?" Doc Vaughn asked.

"Not yet," Daria said. After a pause she added, "Maybe in a few years."

"Smartass."

"Are you just now figuring this out? Goodnight, Doc."

"Goodnight, Daria."

X X X X X

The next morning, she grabbed breakfast at a bagel place and took off. Slayers and their appetites, but she'd gulped down two bagels quickly and taken another one she could eat somewhere when she pulled off the road.

Highland was about an eight-hour drive, and she wanted to have time to do more than glance at the headstones before she took off again. She wasn't planning on telling anyone else she was in town. The place had no meaning for her, other than its connection with Jake, Helen, and Quinn's deaths. Which wasn't quite "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln," but it was damn sure close enough.

With any luck, she'd get there at four, take an hour or so paying her respects, and then be able to hit the open road for a few more hours. That should get her to Livingston tomorrow afternoon

She'd asked to be able to talk to Harbaugh. Freaky, yeah, and the Texas court system had said as much (in legal language as

She'd requested to be allowed to talk with Harbaugh. The Texas court system had said it was unusual, but since under the circumstances she'd never made it to the trial, they were going to let her, as long as he was willing.

Daria'd gotten a call back a couple of days before she left that Harbaugh was willing. What she expected to get out of this, she didn't know. The man had no power over her, not anymore. Maybe she just needed to be sure about that.

She made good time, and pulled into Highland at about quarter of four. She knew better than to drink anything. Last she heard, the bozos who ran the town's idea of fixing the problem of uranium in the drinking water was to do the bureaucratic equivalent of sticking their fingers in their ears and going "la la la I can't hear you." Deny, deny, deny, and when someone shows up with enough evidence, declare bankruptcy and start over.

Place hadn't gotten any better in the four-plus years since she'd been away. She hadn't been expecting otherwise.

She doubted anyone would recognize her; apart from the leather, which she'd worn occasionally here, she looked damn little like the Daria Morgendorffer who'd lived here as a teenager. Eyesight, 20/10, so no glasses. Motorcycle. Leather pants.

Yeah, leather pants. Daria Morgendorffer wouldn't've been caught dead wearing leather pants. Daria Morgendorffer didn't want people to look at her and think, "Yo, check out the hot babe." One of the things Glorificus' merge had done was relax Daria's attitude a bit. Not that she wanted to be judged on her looks. She didn't. But she wasn't going to let that determine how she dressed. Leather pants were practical for motorcycle riding, so she wore leather pants. People would look. She couldn't change that.

She wasn't going to try.

Okay. The graveyard was a couple of miles away. She pulled into a convenience store parking lot. Better to get this out of the way before she went. Last thing she wanted to be thinking when she visiting her family's graves was how much she had to pee.

She was opening the bathroom door when she heard something that made her shut it again in a hurry.

The sounds of two people, laughing stupidly.

Opening the door a crack, she listened.

It was them.

The two stupidest people on the planet.

They were still alive.

And, she noted, still wearing the same shirts. Probably literally.

She'd never hated them. She'd recognized their basic stupidity, but as long as it wasn't affecting her she was more amused by them than anything else.

Still, the last thing she wanted to do was confront them. Not now. Not when she was about to do something so serious.

They were trying to scam the store owner out of nachos, and they were complaining about how MTV, like, didn't have videos any more, and how they weren't, like, going to make fun of CMT, because everything on CMT sucked. Except for Shania Twain. She was hot.

Some things never changed.

Good to know.

Still. She waited for them to leave, quietly made sure they were out of the parking lot, and drove out to the cemetery.


	3. Acceptance

Disclaimer: Joss, Glenn, me: Buffy/Angel, Daria, the plot and original characters.

_Yeah when I go over yonder  
I will see my mother  
My sister and my father_

--_Johnny Rottentale_, Amy Ray

X X X X X

Highland Gardens (A Tasteful Resting Place for Your Loved Ones Throughout All Eternity) was reasonably well kept up. Certainly, it was no Sunnydale cemetery, which she'd gotten even more familiar with while B and Giles trained her.

Yeah, she had Faith's Slaying knowledge and Daria's ability to think quickly, and that was pretty damn good -- it had worked to take down a Hellgod. But B had a discipline that Daria couldn't match and Faith had never bothered to learn, and Giles knew a lot more about monsters and weapons than either of them. Daria Faith Morgendorffer was about as damn good as they came when it came to unarmed combat or knives. There were a shitload of other cool weapons out there besides knives.

An intense training course -- with Red, Tara and Xander taking over for B and Giles whenever they got tired -- and Daria felt like she was a lot better off. It was a Slayer superpower to be able to pick up on how to use pretty much any weapon she, um, picked up, and now she was better at a lot more than knives. A useful skill, to be certain. She could now hire herself out for parties as a chainsaw juggler.

"This is that sarcasm thing again, right?" B'd said when she said as much a few weeks back.

"Ah. The teacher has become the student," had been Daria's response.

This had all been said while Daria had, indeed, been juggling, though assorted weapons, not chainsaws. In the meantime, she had to keep up a conversation with both B and Giles. "We leave those to Giles."

Daria had said, "Yo, G! You and chainsaws? You doing the Jason Voorhees bit in your spare time?"

"In the case in question, a fear demon had taken over a house and blocked all the doors and windows. Subtlety didn't appear to be an option. Had the chainsaw not worked, my next option would have been wrecking ball." The tone'd been light, but there'd been a damned serious undertone: Don't mess with me or mine. It was a philosophy she could get behind.

"Another Alexander," Daria'd said.

"I suppose so," Giles had said, chuckling. "But I doubt I would have wept because there were no more worlds to conquer."

"I don't see Giles as the conqueror type," B'd said.

Daria had said, "Apart from India, Pakistan, Canada, Ireland, the former Rhodesia . . . "

"I would like to point out," Giles had said mildly. "That I did not personally conquer any of those places."

"Oh, but you wanted to."

Anyway, this place didn't look like it had been more or less abandoned for the last ten years, with maybe someone with a lawnmower running through at high noon once a month while making damn sure he didn't get too close to the crypts in case someone inside got grabby. Likely there wasn't much of a local vampire population. Either that or they were smart enough not to go on any long killing sprees.

Honestly, she kind of doubted the latter. Spike and Angel aside, vamps as a general rule weren't noted for their heavy brainpower.

She'd look inside a couple of crypts on her way out just to be sure.

In the meantime, there was something more important for her to do.

They were all buried next to each other.

Tellingly, there was no fourth plot next to them, waiting for her. "I wouldn't allow it," her Aunt Amy had said.

Something Daria was grateful for.

For a while, she just stood there and looked:

Jacob Morgendorffer, 1949-1997.

Helen Morgendorffer, 1950-1997.

Quinn Morgendorffer, 1983-1997.

The thoughts, all the thoughts, everything she thought she wanted to say, to feel, fled her mind the second the reality of the gravestones hit her.

She thought she'd accepted their deaths.

It was only now, staring at the stones, that she realized she'd never actually come to emotional terms with it. Intellectual terms, yeah. But she'd always been all about accepting things on terms other than the emotional, whether that was intellectual, like Daria, or purely physical, like Faith.

The five stages were a general guideline: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. As with so many things, she hadn't done them like everyone else would. She'd been forced to acceptance by having the reality of their deaths essentially be thrown in her face.

The reality of their murders.

Daria had always known they weren't coming back. Knew she'd never hear one of her father's bizarre bursts of rage or her mother's semi-patient defusing of same; never hear her father call her kiddo and clumsily attempt to figure out what was going on in her or Quinn's lives.

("Dammit, Helen! I don't want to move to Maryland! All my friends are here!"

"And what friends would those be, Jake?"

"Um, well -- Bill! Bill Harman! I play golf with him every Sunday!"

"Bill moved two years ago."

"Well, I still don't want to move. I'll -- I'll hate the weather! I don't know what the weather's like up there, but I'll hate it! I swear I will, Helen!""

"And how do you expect me to do my new job? Telecommute?"

"It's the newest craze!"

"No, Jake. Now go pack."

"But --"

"No buts. Now get.")

She hadn't appreciated it when they were there. But for all their faults, they'd done an above average job as parents.

She could almost hear Quinn talking about her new look and attitude, though. "Daria," she'd say. "The biker look was so 1970's. If you must ride a motorcycle, you could least try to look like you cared how you dress."

"I could," Daria would say. "But then I'd have to scrub out my brain with Clorox to get that knowledge out of my head. And really. Who has the time? Or the appropriate cleaning brush?"

"Going to the hardware store, kiddo? Pick me up a chainsaw! I've been meaning to take care of that tree in the backyard," Dad would have said.

And Mom would have said, "No chainsaws, Jake. That tree in the backyard is only six inches tall."

"But I've always wanted a chainsaw!"

And she'd never get to say that to any of them again. At least not and have them respond. She guessed there were magical ways to pull it off. But she wasn't going to avail herself of them.

She'd known it. And she'd always been an intellectual person; still was, for the most part, for all that Faith's instincts and passions were roiling inside her. She'd thought, she'd hoped, that the intellectual realization was as hard as it was going to get.

It wasn't.

They were dead.

She was surprised to find out that she was crying. Daria never cried. Not even as a baby, Mom had told her. She'd been a very quiet child.

Faith had only cried once. Not when her Watcher had died; not when she woke up from the coma and found out the Mayor had died.

Only when she was trying to get Angel to kill her and was screaming about her bad, how evil she was.

So it wasn't something she was used to.

But it was obviously something she needed to do.

When she was done, finally, she spoke:

"I can't say I didn't say this enough when you are alive," Daria said. "Because that wouldn't have been me. But I don't think it's wrong for me to wish I'd said it a couple more times. Dad, Mom, and yeah, even you, Quinn: I love you. I don't think I'm ever going to get to see you again. But I'm glad I stopped by to see you now. I know you wouldn't be proud of some of the things I've done. But, goddammit, that part of my life is over. And you will be proud of the things I'll do in the future."

She smiled slightly. "Well, most of them."

If she listened, she could not almost hear her mother say, "Oh, Daria."

In her head, though, it was loud and clear.


	4. The Polunsky Unit

Daria was created by Glenn Eichler, Faith by Joss Whedon, the plot by meand I'm making up the layout of the Polunksy Unit death row in Livingston, TX and any other details about the place.

Just in case you were thinking of breaking someone out of there. Helpful hint: Don't use this to help you plan.

_I am alone in a hotel room tonight  
I squeeze the sky out but there's not a star appears  
Begin my studies with this paper and this pencil  
And I'm working through the grammar of my fears_

_-- Language or the Kis_s, Indigo Girls

X X X X X

On Daria's way out of Highland Gardens, she checked a few random crypts, first making sure there was no one near who might think she was looting or doing the vandal routine.

No one. Good. It would be hard to imagine a reasonable explanation. "I was looking for vampires" would have probably gotten her committed.

Whoa. Check that. This was Texas, after all. It probably would have gotten her locked up for twenty years on general principles. And having just gotten out of prison not too long back, she had absolutely no desire to head back there. She would have preferred a nice long talk with the B&B boys about pre-Socratic philosophy.

"Heh-heh. I put, like, Parmenides on my spaghetti."

And yet, still preferable.

Anyway, there wasn't anyone inside the crypts unless you counted the corpses, and judging from the amount of dust on the floor they hadn't been doing any moving for a while.

Statistically, she realized that a ten-minute check of one cemetery didn't mean squat in determining whether vamps made this place their home away from hell. Still, it made her feel somewhat better about the place where her parents and Quinn were buried, that it wasn't as likely anybody'd been digging them up or would be doing so in the future.

Place didn't seem to show signs of being a vamp paradise, anyway. The people she saw – and thank goodness, she saw no one who recognized or, more importantly, who recognized her – weren't scurrying around and trying to get inside before nighttime hit. Yeah, Sunnydale'd had a human night life, but people tended to concentrate and congregate. Vampires picked off the stragglers, the rookies, and the morons.

She laughed. And, as if she'd needed it, there was proof there were no vampires in Highland. Had there been, Beavis and Butthead would have been dead a long time ago.

Of course, she supposed it was possible that even vampires had standards.

Anyway, she made it out of town cleanly. A couple of hours and hundred miles down the road, she found another roadside motel, checked in, and went out to get something to eat.

Last night, she'd checked the nightlife. She supposed she should check here too, just to be on the safe side. For the moment, she was content eating pizza – a whole one, large, pepperoni and mushroom – and reading her book. i Dhalgren /i , Samuel R. Delany.

Aunt Amy had sent it to her. "I figured that you'd never gotten the chance to finish it," she wrote on the inside front cover. "Now's your chance."

This was the book she'd been in the middle of on April 9, 1997, so Daria appreciated the thought.

After an hour she headed out to make the rounds. A couple of demons lurking in the nearby woods were all she found. Daria had no idea who they were or what species; since they didn't jump her on sight, or run like they'd just been caught, she kind of had to let them go.

Too bad. Part of her had been wanting to pound something ever since this afternoon. Yes, violence. The solution to all the world's problems.

She now knew that she had such rage in her. She also knew how to channel it or get rid of it.

A quote from MASH came to mind: "Anger turned inwards is depression. Anger turned sideways is Hawkeye."

She'd already turned her rage on other people, and would throw herself off a bridge before she ever let herself go like that again. She had no desire to turn it inwards.

That left sideways.

Turning on the TV, she made a phone call. "Yo," came the voice at the other end.

"Yo yourself, Jane," Daria said.

"Ah. The prodigal Morgendorffer. Assuming you go by that these days."

"I do," Daria said. "Doing anything special?"

"Well, I was about to rob the local bank with pruning shears and a riding mower, but I suppose I can postpone," she said.

"Pruning shears and a riding mower?"

"My plans are artistic. They are rarely effective."

"Explains why you haven't robbed too many banks."

Jane sighed. "Probably better in the long run, amiga; an artist is supposed to suffer for their art, and people suffer in prison, but I suspect that would be too great a sacrifice to jumpstart even my stalled artistic career."

"Trust me," Daria said. "Speaking from personal experience, the only thing prison inspired me to do is not want to go back. The great prison novel ain't in my immediate future." Not completely true. Faith had wanted to stay in jail. She felt she deserved the punishment. She was willing to leave for Daria.

None of which remotely meant that she ever wanted to relive the experience. Even being the tough bitch and having no one want to mess with you only made it marginally better.

Most importantly, the pizza sucked.

"What is in your future?"

"Watching an execution."

Daria could hear Jane's eyebrows raise. "Okay. Spill, Morgendorffer."

They talked for an hour or so and, at the end, made a firm commitment to meet, and soon.

Her rage dissipated, Daria read for another hour and went to bed.

X X X X X

Another early morning. She had to get to Livingston in time to make her appointment with Willard Jay Harbaugh.

The man was scheduled to die this evening, and they started getting him ready not long after his last meal. So she had to make pretty good time to get to the complex by the early afternoon.

She wondered if the other survivors would be there. Kendall Severance and Everett Odom had also both watched Harbaugh slaughter their entire families. She wouldn't be surprised either way. Some people wanted vengeance, and some wanted to do the best to shove the whole matter as far into the backs of their minds as they possibly could.

Not as far as Daria had, admittedly, to the point where she'd become someone else to deal with the stress. But still.

Around 3 in the afternoon she pulled into a fast food place about ten miles from Livingston and changed her clothes. She didn't want to look all biker chick when she actually went into death row. Kind of dumb to give the guards the idea that maybe you might be there to break the guy out.

Not that she was going to go the demure route. But something approximating the old Daria Morgendorffer look would probably go over better.

When she pulled into the parking lot of the Polunsky Unit, which was the improbable name for Texas' Death Row, a bit southwest of Livingston itself, she made sure to stow all of her weapons. Damn, but she felt naked without them. Still, she wasn't likely to encounter any vampires.

A guard would have to escort her from here.

She took a deep breath, still not knowing exactly what she was going to say to the man who'd murdered her family, and headed for the guard station.


	5. Much Better Now

Author's Note: For anyone who's interested: This is the main plot. No monsters, no big bads -- not unless you count Willard Jay Harbaugh.

Disclaimer: I created Willard Jay Harbaugh. Joss Whedon created Faith. Glenn Eichler created Daria Morgendorffer.

_I will not be a pawn for the prince of darkness any longer_

-- Prince of Darkness, the Indigo Girls

X X X X X

Daria Faith Morgendorffer waited for one of the guards at the outer gate to pat her down – he was thorough and professional.

She was always surprised at thorough and professional. Experience had taught her that that was the exception, not the rule. Still, if there was going to be a place where thorough and professional was the norm, death row was it.

Still. It seemed improbable. But she supposed long odds paid out every once in a while.

Just look at who the president was, for instance.

Then he told her to wait while another guard came to escort her in.

Once she got inside, she went through another patdown. They didn't find anything. And there was only one place she could've been hiding a stake and not had them find it.

All she had on her was a wallet. (She didn't carry a purse. While she paid a bit more attention to the way she looked than Daria had, she was not and was never going to be Quinn, Cordy, or anyone who spent two hours looking in a mirror. A little lipstick and a hairbrush was all she needed, and it ain't like she needed a purse for those.

One of the guards was glaring at her – not simply "Let's make sure you ain't smuggling anything in," either. This was hostile.

Finally, once the second search was done, she said, "Did I kill your dog?"

"What?" the guard – his name was O'Leary – said.

"Spit on the sidewalk in front of you? Seduce your son? Because otherwise, you know, I can't figure out your anger. Or perhaps you simply glare angrily at everyone. In which case I might suggest you find some way to rid yourself of all that stress."

"I'm so sorry," O'Leary said exaggeratedly. "It's just that I always glare at killers who got away with it." His fellow guard – her nametag read "Velazquez –" said nothing either way.

"Ah," Daria said. "You're one of those."

"One of what?" he asked.

"Never mind," Daria said. "I almost certainly have no chance of changing your mind, and I got better things to do than beat my head against the brick wall that is your skull." Then she turned to Velazquez. "May I ask that you escort me where I need to go?"

She shrugged and said, "Sure. O'Leary, return to your rounds."

"But –"

"Return to your rounds," Velazquez said firmly. O'Leary left.

"Thanks," Daria said.

"You're welcome. Follow me. And don't get lost."

"Don't worry. I've got my trusty compass."

X X X X X

The meeting room was empty when they got there. The traditional sheet of soundproof clear plastic was there as well, stretching across the room. Possibly she could have kicked her way through it. Now wasn't the time to experiment. Daria would have to talk with Harbaugh via phone. Velazquez said, "I don't think I need to warn you about this – I don't think you came here 'cause you're a groupie –"

"I doubt they'd have let me in if I were," Daria said. "And, trust me. I'm as likely to be a fan of the person who killed my parents as I would be of Osama bin Laden."

"You'd be surprised," Velazquez said.

"'No one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American people.' Mencken, I think. That there are mass murderer groupies out there does not surprise me in the least. Even someone as reprehensible as Harbaugh."

"Not as many as some," the guard said. "Anyway. No touching the glass and no loud voices. This is the last meeting he's going to have with anyone who's not a prison official or a priest."

"I should feel honored," Daria said. "I don't, but I suppose I should." She was trying to sound as much like Daria as possible. She was about to come face to face with the SOB who'd killed Jake, Helen, and Quinn Morgendorffer and created Faith and she would be damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had a "legacy."

He was meeting Daria Morgendorffer.

And here he came.

Doc Vaughn had told her that the deepest parts of her subconscious remembered what had happened on the night of April 10, 1997. Faith had never remembered what had happened before she came into existence, and Daria had blotted out the events of that day.

So she had no conscious memory of what Willard Jay Harbaugh looked like.

He turned out to be fairly short with dark hair, brown eyes, and a pale complexion. Other than a scar down his right arm, he didn't have any distinguishing features. When he saw her he grinned.

The grin, she recognized. She'd seen it on herself often enough.

The guard on the other side sat him down, and then moved to the corner of the room. Velazquez had already done the same.

Harbaugh gestured to the phone. They both picked it up at the same time.

"So," he said in a thick Boston accent. "It's your dime. What'd you want to talk about?"

"So, I take it you're not going to tearfully plead for my forgiveness."

He snorted. "Did you come to give it to me?"

"God may forgive you," Daria said. "If he exists. I have my doubts on that subject."

"So do I," he said. "Something we got in common."

The son of a bitch was trying to psych her out. Ain't like it was going to work, but still. "I suppose I have something in common with a lot of people. Even Vlad the Impaler."

"So," Harbaugh said. "Let's try this again. What'd you want to talk about?"

"We have so many possible subjects," Daria said.

"Well, pick one. I ain't got all day."

Daria grinned faintly. "You have the rest of your life."

Now Harbaugh grinned. "Same thing."

"How does it feel?" Daria asked. "To have all day be the rest of your life?" That made the grin disappear.

"How the fuck you think it feels?" he said. "Ain't like you don't have some idea what I'm going through."

He was trying to rattle her. Ain't like it was going to work. "Some. But there's a fundamental difference."

"Yeah?"

"I got out."

"I'll be out soon enough."

"Yes, but you won't be able to enjoy it."

Harbaugh said, "So, the only reason you came here was to give me a hard time?"

"No. It is a nice fringe benefit. I guess I just wanted to meet you."

"Huh? We met before."

"Yes. So I'm told. For obvious reasons, that day is kind of blurry. I think I wanted to see if you still had any hold on me." She'd long ago given up being afraid of Harbaugh. Still, that didn't mean he might not have some influence. Beyond the obvious.

But Faith had become her own woman. It had taken her a while, but she had finally learned.

"I made you what you became," Harbaugh said. "You killed two people. If that ain't a hold, I don't know what is."

And she knew. "No. You were a small part of it. I'm not going to blame you anymore for what I became. That gives you too much credit. And takes too much of the blame from me. I had choices along the way, and I made some poor choices." She paused, and then said, "But I'm feeling much better now."

Faith had always liked reruns of Night Court.

"So, that mean you forgive me after all?" he asked sardonically.

"No. I may not blame you for what I became, but I sure as hell blame you for what you did. You feel no remorse. All you'll have out there is people wanting you dead. I don't think even too much of the anti-death penalty community is going to be mourning you. Kendall Severance and Everett Odom have gotten past what you did. And now, so have I. All that will be left of you is the memory of an evil, vicious thug. A footnote, perhaps, in some encyclopedia of crime in twenty years, who inspired a couple of bestsellers, and perhaps a Lifetime movie. And that's what you'll take to the grave."

"So what? Now you get to live happily ever after?"

"No. But I get to live." And before Harbaugh could say anything else, she hung up, stood up, and told the guard, "I think I'm done."

When she left, she didn't look back.

There was nothing there to see. 


	6. Back on the Bus, Y'all

Disclaimer: Wasn't feeling well. Back. _Buffy _created by Joss Whedon. _Daria _by Glenn Eichler.

_whatever it was  
it wasn't manumission  
to spill the blood  
to pull the weed  
you can bury the past  
but it's a mausoleum  
with the ghost of a fist  
that won't let us be_

-- Indigo Girls, _Tether_

X X X X X

Of course, the dramatic exit left Daria with several hours to kill, so to speak, before Harbaugh's execution, and the Polunsky unit guards weren't particularly interested in having her hang around that long. When Velazquez told her this, she said. "What? No restaurant? No gift shop?"

"I've been bugging them to put one in, but they haven't been listening," the guard said.

"Right. This is Texas, yo. I'd think there'd be people lining up to watch. Kind of like the zoo, only these apes ain't getting out."

"You'd rather have a gorilla get out than most of these people," Velazquez said. "Hell, a lion."

"I wasn't saying otherwise," Daria said. Her personal opinion about the death penalty remained unchanged, Harbaugh's impending execution notwithstanding. She was against it. Didn't mean she didn't think most of these wastes of oxygen should ever see the light of day again, assuming their guilt was proven, but it was just too hard to bring people back from the dead.

Probably not impossible; Hell, B'd done it once. She should ask Red at some point. Still, likely no one had the ability to do it at will. Except for dudes who could make zombies, and no matter that the zombies she knew weren't Night of the Living Dead critters, they were still literally dead men walking.

Given what she was there to see, a not entirely inappropriate phrase.

They'd be slipping him the needle at around midnight. So that left her with several hours to kill. So to speak.

Okay. Enough with the death puns. It wasn't the lese-majeste of making fun of a death row inmate that bugged her; assuming he existed, God knew neither Daria nor Faith had ever been one for being reverent.

As Velazquez saw her out, the guard said, "See you again at 11. The bus meets at the local county courthouse; you know where that is?"

Daria knew. "Only reason I rode up here is that this was kind of a last-minute thing – didn't know if you had a bus or something set up to take me."

"We didn't. But your visit was last-minute enough that the anti-death penalty nuts wouldn't have had time to protest it. That's not true about tonight."

Daria nodded. "Okay. Makes sense. I was looking forward to shocking them by telling them that I agree with them a lot of the time, but I guess I'll just have to trade amusement for safety. Damn, but I wanted to see their mouths hang open."

"Would've been fun," Velazquez said as she saw Daria out. "See you tonight."

So, that left her with time to kill in rural Texas. First thing she did was track down the county courthouse just to be on the safe side; easy enough to find. There was a motel a half mile down the road, so that was taken care of.

It was a bit early to go patrolling, but it was never too early for lunch. One thing Daria and Faith shared was a big appetite. Sure, the pizza probably wouldn't be gourmet out here in the middle of fuck-all nowhere, but food was food and long as it was edible she'd be fine.

Turned out there was a Pizza Hut, which fit her criteria to the bone.

After that, she called Angel. "You met Harbaugh?" he asked after a minute or so of small talk

"Yup," she said. "I wasn't impressed. But then, people don't need to be impressive when they can carry firearms."

"Are you okay?"

Daria smiled slightly. "Appreciate the concern, Angel. Really. But I've been building up to this for a while now. I didn't think he had any power left over me before I went in there; now I'm damn sure he doesn't. Am I going to rejoice in his death? No. Is it going to bug me that he's dead? Hell, no."

A second, and then Angel said, "Would you kill him yourself if you had the chance?"

Daria fought back the initial surge of anger. This was Angel, the one dude who knew, really knew, her as Faith, and hadn't condemned her for it. Odds were he wasn't trying to rake her over the coals now, but prove a point.

But what point?

"My instincts say both no and yes," she finally said. "I suspect I'd be very, very tempted – and I ain't saying I wouldn't beat the shit out of the guy if I got the chance – but I'm not going to kill a human being again unless I'm completely out of options. And things would have to get fairly desperate to reach that level. Something along the lines of 'world about to be destroyed.' Now, see, normally that would be hyperbole. But since I fell in with you people I've come to realize it ain't."

"So if you had him in front of you right now, tied up --"

"I'd scream, I'd pound him a few dozen times, and then I'd call the police to come pick him up. Anonymously, of course. I haven't taken leave of my senses. Yet today. But stay tuned for further developments."

"I'm being serious, Daria."

"I know you are. And believe me, so am I. I appreciate, now, where you're going with this. It's kind of the reason I called you instead of the Doc; you know what being a killer's all about. I wanted you to be sure that I wasn't backsliding."

"I never thought you were," Angel said. "I was just seeing whether what was going on was bothering you. There's a difference between being tempted to kill someone and doing it. You've been on the other side once. I can't see you going back."

"Thank you," Daria said. "I appreciate that." Then, changing the subject, "Any progress with Cameron?"

"We've decided to make it personal," Angel said. "It's Gavin Park who's been masterminding this effort to go after her. So we're going to go after him personally. The Doctor has some good ideas about that."

"Ain't surprised," Daria said. "Tell everyone who cares I'm doing okay."

They hung up.

When it got dark, Daria wandered around the area looking for vampires. Different town, different graveyard, same old vampire behavior. Couldn't've been too many in the area, but even one was too much.

It'd been a while since she was able to cut loose without worrying about the consequences. She wasn't the same thrill-seeking (for which read, borderline death wish) girl she'd been back when she and B had gone on their vamp-killing spree way back when, but she could still appreciate a good fight. Even more, now that she was thinking her way through the battles instead of just relying on instinct. Not that instinct wasn't important. But toss in the thinking and you got the difference between living in the moment and making damn sure the "living" continued for as long as possible.

She might be able to appreciate a good fight, but these vamps weren't it. The old Daria, by herself, could've taken them two days after she'd figured out she was a Slayer. It took her about two minutes.

Still, two less bloodsuckers roaming the night around the Polunsky Unit. Every little bit and all that.

She got back on motorcycle, rode back to the hotel, and hoofed it to the courthouse.

There were maybe a dozen people there. Kendall Severance and Everett Odum. Two people who said they were good friends of the Hill family, assuming Daria was actually understanding the one dude's muttering. A couple of other relatives. Harbaugh's lawyer. Three reporters.

No one was doing much talking. The reporters kept to themselves.

What was that feeling?

Whoa.

Someone on the bus was a demon.


	7. Process of Elimination

Daria, Faith, original characters: Glenn, Joss, me. A couple of cameo characters, unnamed.

_Dead dog on the highway  
median cats are growling at me  
I turn my lights on brighter  
I'm counting through the night ride  
and it's one more life for the taker_

_-- Chickenman, _The Indigo Girls

X X X X X

Good. This was just what she needed. Perhaps there would be a killing spree later to liven up the evening. Daria might've wanted to throw down with someone, but somehow in the middle of death row seemed like the wrong place.

Still, though the timing sucked beyond the telling, if it took a melee in the Polunsky unit to make sure no one else would get hurt, so be it. She'd probably never be invited back. But she was willing to take that risk.

Maybe, though, things could be solved without a glorious burst of violence.

Actually, this might've been the one area she was better than B at. B's "Spider-sense" of somehow knowing where the vamps and demons were'd gotten rusty. Faith hadn't had much call to use it in prison, but she'd never lost it. Hell, a couple of her fellow inmates had some demon in them. None of them acted any different, but she'd still kept an eye on them just to be sure they weren't planning any kind of dark ritual. But nope; they were just there to serve out their time, the way most of them were.

While she could tell a demon was somewhere on the bus, it ain't like it was easy to pin the sucker down. Because easy would have just been too easy. And her life required complications, apparently. Somewhere along the line, she must have signed a contract to that effect. Hell, it was the only explanation she could come up with.

Anyway. Right now it was kind of like a scent trail. She could "smell" that the sucker had been through here real recently, but not exactly who it was.

It was a shitload easier figuring out who it _wasn't_.

It wasn't Everett Odom, it wasn't Kendall Severance, and it wasn't either of the friends of the Hill family. The other two relatives, she couldn't tell about; she knew they were relatives of the Malinowski family, but that was about it.

Or -- dammit -- Harbaugh's attorney. That would have made things easier, going by the assumption that dude worked for some Texas Branch of Wolfram & Hart.

It also wasn't the bus driver, or the nearer corrections officer. The other one was sitting towards the back of the bus and was out of Daria's range. That left her, then, or one of the three reporters, or the Malinowskis. Nothing about any of them screamed demon, visually, anyway, and they didn't have the common courtesy to be talking in Ancient High Demonic and make it easy on her.

Damn etiquette-free demons. Maybe she should buy them a copy of Miss Manners' latest. She wondered how well _Miss Manners' Guide to Extraordinarily Correct Behavior for Demons_ would go over.

Daria wasn't in panic mode; of course, Daria was almost never in panic mode, so that wasn't exactly saying much. It was entirely possible that whatever demon was there was exactly like those other prisoners had been passing for human and not there for any kind of nefarious scheme

Still, she wasn't about to just hope that that was the case, either. Helen Morgendorffer had raised no fools. No matter how close she looked at everyone else on the bus, though, ain't none of them had the decency to show themselves. She supposed it would have been too much to ask for the demon to start slavering and saying, "Yo! I'm here to sacrifice you to my dark master."

Ah well. She passed the rest of the ride reading a bit more of _Dhalgren_. When she got off the bus, she waited a minute for everyone to pass. The anti-death penalty people were protesting outside, and approached the bus as it drove up, but didn't get in the way. A few newscrews were there, also.

Daria didn't interact with any of them. The bus drove through the outer security gate, past the protestors and camera crews, and let everyone out near the prison. "Okay," the CO at the front of the bus – his name was Castorelli -- said. "Move inside as quickly as you can, please. Leave all bags on the bus; reporters, please step aside for a more thorough search. Thank you."

Well, shit. There went her plan to wait while everyone else passed by so she could get a good read off them.

Before Daria stood up, she quickly bent down and untied her right boot.

As she stepped off the bus, she "tripped" and fell, then waved off the security guard's offer of assistance. "Damn," she said. "Shoe's untied. Hold on a sec." Castorelli could see that the boot was untied, so he just said, "Take a second, ma'am, but then you're going to have to get inside."

Even with her fingers "slipping" a few times, it was only enough for Daria to get a read on the Malinowskis and one of the reporters. And it wasn't any of them. She realized she'd have other chances when she got inside, but she'd been hoping to be able to confront the demon before they actually got to death row.

The search was quick and professional. They were guests, not suspected terrorists, and they'd already been vetted or they never would've been allowed to come this far. As a side benefit, she got to check out the other CO -- Stagg was his name. He might've needed a bath -- dude stunk worse than a brace of dead skunks -- but he wasn't a demon.

Which left two of the reporters. One was a woman, early '30s, brown hair and eyes, a bit on the tall side; other was gray -- hair, suit, and tie, and a bit shorter than the woman.

They walked from there to the observation room -- which looked exactly like the observation room she'd seen on every show she'd ever seen and every comic she'd ever read. Two rows of seats, window probably made of bulletproof glass, curtain. They were led in and told to take a seat wherever.

She took a seat at one end of a row. One of the Hill family's friends ended up sitting next to her, but didn't say anything. Not that she could have understood him if he had; guy muttered like he was trying out for adult Kenny on a live-action _South Park_.

Faith had liked _South Park_. Daria was reasonably sure the unmerged Daria wouldn't have; while she would have been to see something so irreverent, she would have felt it took easy shots at cheap targets. Daria Faith hadn't bothered to reconcile that yet. One of those things Daria Faith hadn't bothered to reconcile yet. Not like she'd had a lot of chances to watch the show recently. Better things to do. Saving the world, trivial things like that.

The reporters came in last, dammit, and the two she needed to check out sat as far from her as they could. Still, the CO's hadn't told them they had to sit down and shut up, or anything. They were the victims, not prisoners themselves. So, faking a stretch, she walked around the room.

And there it was. She tapped the demon on the shoulder and said, "Heya. Want an interview with a survivor? 'cause I brought a book and I'm happy to read but I'm guessing you might get a little bored just staring at the wall for the next half hour. On the other hand, perhaps you're a fan of walls."

The reporter said, "Sure," and they walked to one of the walls. Then, speaking in hushed tones, "Thank you. My first question is --"

"Actually. I have a question first," Daria said. "Seeing as you're a demon --"

And the woman said, "Ah, crap."


	8. Interview with the Demon

Disclaimer: Daria, Faith, the original characters: Glenn, Joss, me.

the preacher asked him for any last words  
my brother spit onto his clean shirt  
and he smiled without redemption  
and said this is one soul god don't need

-- Amy Ray, Johnny Rottentale

X X X X X

"Ah, crap?" Daria said. Not exactly the reaction she'd been expecting.

The woman smiled slightly. "Thought I was going to start attacking you or try to bust through the walls to get away, didn't you?"

"Maybe take a hostage. Why I separated you from the rest of them. Case you decided to get all freaky and begin a melee, there's always the possibility they might be able to escape."

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said. "I don't plan on going on a murderous rampage. Not now, not ever. I like living too much." After a second, she added, "You seem disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed. Skeptical, yeah. I certainly know about the shitload of demons that are fine with living and let living. That one of them would be present at the execution of the person who killed my parents stretches my credulity slightly."

"It's not a coincidence," she said. Daria braced herself for a fight. Wouldn't be the first time she'd faced down against some superchick in the middle of a prison. Admittedly, last time she'd been an inmate. Still, it was not a trend she actually felt like continuing. "But it has nothing to do with you. Just my bad luck that the daughter of a murder victim would be a vampire Slayer."

"So, why are you here?" Daria said.

"Death," she said.

"You're death?" Truth be told, she didn't look the part. On the other hand, Daria scarcely looked like the terror of the underworld, herself.

Now she laughed. "No. I look horrible in black." Her voice got real quiet. "I feed on it. The nastier, the better."

"So you just fake being a reporter so you can feed off, what, the energies of someone passing away?"

"Nothing fake about my job," she said. "I'm still hoping you'll give me an interview."

"Maybe in a few minutes," Daria said. "Once I'm completely satisfied. You feed on death?"

"Yes. I'm a todhunter demon." Daria had never heard of them; but then, Faith had

"Gotta say, this seems like a lot of work for not a whole lot of payout," Daria said. "Seems to me you could just as easily "feed" by hanging around hospitals."

"Sometimes, I do," the reporter said. "And I do if I have to. But there's a difference in quality. Why would I dine on hamburgers when I can have steak?"

Daria said, "You're asking the wrong girl, Still, I believe I understand."

"Good."

"Two more things," Daria said. "And remember, I know who you are --" the woman's name, Susanna Curry, was on her badge -- "and, if it turns out you're lying, I'll come back and indulge myself in some creative self-teaching on the anatomy of demons. A course in which I strongly suspect I'll get an A. And not just because I'll be the one giving the grades. You get me?"

The woman said wryly, "I believe so, yes."

"One. Ever help anyone along so you could feed?"

"Yes," Curry said. "I've always wanted to be under investigation as a serial killer."

It took Daria a second, but she got it. "You don't have an alternate form."

"Nope. I've got scales growing where they won't show and my eyes are silver, but beyond that?" Daria looked at her eyes. "Color contacts. I explain them as a birth defect if I have to, but it's easier not to have to. Anyway, human form, human fingerprints, human teeth, and human enough DNA. And besides, it's just not how my species operates. We're -- we're vultures. We're not carnivores."

"Okay. Lacking any convenient Watchers I suppose I'm going to have to take you at your word. Second: What happens to Harbaugh as you feed on his death? Does it put him at peace, does he go through a universe of pain --?

"I told you I was a vulture," Curry said.

"Ah. So you're going to fly over him for a while and fight it out with other vultures. Truly. I see the analogy."

"Has anyone ever told you can be very sarcastic?" the reporter asked.

"Once or twice. So, yo: What do you mean this time?"

"Does a dead deer know or care if a vulture's eating it?"

"So it's not going to affect him one way or the other."

"Nope." After a second, she added, "So were you hoping it would hurt him?"

"Let's just say I'm glad you didn't present me with that particular dilemma. 'cause it would have been a sonuvabitch to figure out." Indeed. One part of her -- okay, a large part -- wouldn't have minded seeing Willard Jay Harbaugh in agony as he shuffled off this mortal coil, but still, that would mean that Curry'd done that to other people, some of whom probably wouldn't be contemptible bastards. Despite her generally low opinion of the human race, damn few people deserved to spend their last moments suffering like a motherfucker.

There didn't seem to be anything to say that, so Susanna Curry didn't even try. Instead, she pulled out a notepad and said, "About that interview . . .?"

"Okay, seeing as I just threatened your life, I figure I probably owe you. You have five minutes." Odd being interviewed by a demon, but Daria's instincts were telling her that the reporter was probably telling the truth.

And it wasn't like Daria was lying about coming after her if it turned out Curry was bullshitting her, either. Demon was going to have an eye kept on her.

In the meantime, Daria answered her questions, which stuck mostly to the topic of Willard Jay Harbaugh, though once she did ask about Daria's time as "Faith Lehane." Daria could hardly bitch about it; it was still news, after all.

When they were done, they both sat back down. Daria positioned herself where she could keep a careful eye on Susanna Curry. The guards had kept half an eye on them, but, as they hadn't been hustled out to meet any reps of the local loony bins, Daria felt fairly safe assuming they hadn't been listening.

They didn't have to wait long. Soon enough the curtain opened on Willard Jay Harbaugh, strapped onto a gurney-looking thing. He'd already been prepared; at least, there was tubing sticking out of his arm. Three men in surgical garb were standing by -- at least, Daria thought they were guys; they were covered head to toe, except for their eyes. Made sense; executioner wasn't exactly a job guaranteed to get you action at the bar.

Though this was Texas, after all.

One of the guards said, "Five minutes."

Daria settled in.

A priest entered the execution chamber and approached Harbaugh; Harbaugh spit on him. The priest shook his head and walked off.

With one minute to go, sound started coming from the chamber. "Do you have anything to say?" the other man in there said.

Harbaugh said, "Anything I can say that'll change your mind?"

"No," the man said.

"Then no."

And silence.

Half a minute later, the man nodded to the doctors. Each of them injected a needle into a separate part of the tube.

Out of the corner of her eye, Daria watched Susanna Curry. Outwardly, the woman simply seemed to be focused directly at Harbaugh's head. Daria's Slayer senses told her different.

In the chamber, Harbaugh started struggling against his bonds. He still didn't say anything.

Susanna Curry smiled.

Eventually the struggles slowed down.

And then stopped.

No one was there to love him. No one cared about him as him.

And that's what he took to the grave.

Susanna Curry sank back in her seat.

One of the men in surgical garb reached forward and felt Harbaugh's wrist.

And that, apparently, was that. A nod to the man in the corner, and the curtain closed. Daria wondered at the lack of any further announcements, but guessed that "Thank you for coming" would probably seem a little gauche.

The guards gestured for everyone to leave.

Harbaugh was dead.

About damn time.

Daria thought she'd feel more; but then, she'd pretty much already come to terms with everything she needed to come to terms with.

This was just making sure.

She took one last look at the curtain, then turned around and followed Susanna Curry out of the room.


	9. Questions Without Answers

I got the Daria DVD and was inspired to finish this tale of Daria Faith Morgendorffer. A long delay, but it's done.

X X X X X

_When you're three days down the highway_  
_and you're looking like I feel;_  
_if it takes a lot to keep it going,_  
_if it takes a lot to keep it real,_  
_take sometime for yourself and_  
_and learn to yield._

– Yield, Indigo Girls

The ride back wasn't quite an anti-climax; it bore no relation to "climax" at all. It was just a ride. But once they got to the other end, Daria tapped Susanna Curry on the shoulder. "Want a longer interview?" She asked.

"I'll take one --" one of the other reporters said.

"Sorry, this is a limited offer. Limited to those I made it to. And you ain't her."

As the man walked away, Daria said, "Well?"

Susanna shrugged. "I should file the story soon, but more reaction from you would make it better; they'll wait. Sure."

"Follow me back to my hotel."

Once they got inside, Daria said, "Hold on a second. There's something I need to do first." Then she leaned against the door and dialed her cell phone.

After two rings, the person on the other end picked up. "Hello?"

"G, it's Daria. I got a favor to ask."

"Certainly. How can I be of assistance?"

"Tell me what you know about todhunter demons."

Susanna, on the bed, bolted upright, but was stopped when Daria took out her knife and made as though she were going to throw it. The reporter sat back down, a hurt, fearful look on her face.

"Have you encountered one on your sojourn to Texas?" Giles asked.

"Why, no. I just decided that 11:55 PM on a weeknight was a perfect time for me to brush up on my demon species. After this maybe we can discuss alternate dimensional politics. Or gum."

"Foolish question, I suppose," Giles said.

"You think? Now, do how do todhunters feed, and do they hurt the beings they feed from?"

Giles gave Daria a three-minute description which more or less matched the one Susanna had given her, but in high British Scholar instead of plain ol' Texan. Daria spoke both. And Southie, for that matter. After he was done, Daria said, "Thanks. That jibes with what I got here. Just wanted to be sure. Catch you later." She hung up, put the knife away, and said to the reporter, "So. You have any more questions for me?"

Gaping, Susanna said, "What --"

"No offense, but when it comes to demons I've never heard of, I go by the old line, trust everyone, but cut the cards."

"Just in case I was lying." Daria nodded. "And if--"

"You wouldn't've been asking the question." Possible hyperbole. But only possible. "So . . "

"So, Miss Morgendorffer," Susanna said, recovering quickly. "Tell me . . . "

A half hour later, the reporter was done. Daria waited a few minutes and followed her out. Patrolling time.

X X X X X

Two hours later, she was back, and finishing up some snacks she'd picked up at a convenience store. They'd had pizza; but she knew better. She'd found one vampire, and he'd managed to get away; happened when you were on foot and the vamp had wheels.

The TV blared, "Are the undead running blood donation centers? Vampires of the Red Cross, next on _Sick, Sad World_."

She flipped it off and lay down on the bed. She lay there and thought for a while before she went to sleep. Daria was fairly sure she wasn't actually speaking to her parents, just to their memories. Still, it helped.

_Mom, Dad, Quinn: he's dead. The son of a bitch who killed you, who changed me, is dead. I know you weren't in favor of the death penalty – yes, even you, Quinn; you bugged the hell out of me at times but you weren't nearly as shallow as you pretended to be – but I hope you don't mind my temporary hypocrisy. He killed you. He deserved to die._

_He has no power over me any more. He hasn't for quite a while now. It's too much to hope that he has no power over anyone, but I don't have control over what anyone else thinks. When I do, the world will be a better place._

_Joking, of course. That would be wrong. And too much work._

_Anyway, Hell, I don't always have control over what I think. Penalties of being a blended personality, where one personality's a bright but uneducated girl with violent tendencies and the other's missing four years of her life._

_I got to keep – and there, that 'got', the old Daria never would have used that; anyway, I got to keep reminding myself that I'm 20, not 16. I don't know what things would have been like, had we finished the move to Lawndale; if you hadn't accepted that transfer to the Maryland office. (Though thank goodness you were never recruited by Wolfram & Hart.)_

_I would have liked to found out. I would give almost anything to find out. And, given what I know now, I probably could, but I ain't stupid enough to use a wish demon._

_Though, at times, it is tempting. You got no idea how tempting it is. But I'm going to stick with writing for my wish fulfillment._

_'course, I was going to be activated as a Slayer in May 1998 anyway. But you would have been there to protect me, to worry about me, and in Quinn's case, to be embarrassed by me, even more than you already were. _

_Still. Those are counterfactuals. Useful fictions, but only fictions. Mom, Dad, Quinn: I know where I've been. I could really use your advice to figure out where I'm going. Yeah, even you, Quinn._

_I'm a Slayer, yes. I will always be a Slayer, till something Slays me, and that's going to be a while. But beyond that? Academics? Job? Anything?_

There was no answer. Daria hadn't expected one.

She rolled over and went to sleep.

X X X X X

The dreams of the night brought no answers. Not that she trusted the advice of dreams anyway. Even the prophetic ones came across like they'd been written by Laurell K. Hamilton channeling James Joyce.

She showered, dressed, packed, and checked out of the hotel, having no idea where she was going now. Randomly, she headed east.

On a stop late in the morning, she made a couple of phone calls. The first was to Buffy.

"Hey, Daria. Everything okay? Giles said you called about a demon last night."

"Yeah, B," Daria said. "Demon wasn't hostile. If you don't count aggressively questioning me."

"Huh?"

"The demon was also a reporter. I might've been better off if she had been hostile. Then I could have killed her without having it bothering my conscience." A pause, then, "The way it's doing now."

"You didn't--?"

"Relax. I didn't. Didn't even think of it. And if that ain't a sign I've changed, what is? Anyway, I just wanted to call to see if any new emergencies had popped up that you might need my help for."

"Naah. We're trouble-free, more or less," Buffy said. "Couple of vamps here and there, that's it."

"Good to know. You got my cell number?"

"Hold on," she said, and Daria could hear faint sounds of scribbling in the background. "I do now. Why?"

"Because, clichéd as it sounds, I think I need – and I hate this phrase, and you ever say I used it I'll deny it, and kill you -- some me time. Find out who exactly Daria Faith Morgendorffer is. But I want to be available in case Hell, or even Purgatory, breaks loose."

"Okay. Thanks. Keep in touch every once in a while, okay? Let us know you're still alive."

"Will do. Catch you later, B," Daria said, and hung up.

Then she called Angel and made the same offer, and was met with the same answer.

"Offer applies in reverse, you know," he said. "You need help, call us and we'll come running."

"And considering the running speed of the average humanoid, that should get you to me in roughly two months."

Angel chuckled. "You know what I mean."

"I do. And thanks."

A couple of hours further generally northeast and she stopped at a pizza place for lunch. Good, but not great, but enough to keep her going. Then she made her third and final phone call of the day.

"Casa de Lane. We fluff pillows," came the voice on the other end.

"Jane," Daria said. "You fluff pillows?"

"You try making sense at this time of the morning."

"It's 12:30 PM."

"You try making sense at this time of the afternoon," Jane said. "What's up? Everything go as planned?"

"More or less. I called to ask if you'd like to go on a road trip with me."

"Where?"

"Wherever," Daria said. "So, yo: You up for it?"

"Eh. Why the hell not. Not like there's really anything keeping me here, anymore."

"Trent?"

"Trent was – traumatized enough by our paranormal experiences that it lit a fire under him," Jane said. "Comparatively speaking, anyway. He's pushed Mystik Spiral into a tour up and down the East Coast and given the rest of the band an ultimatum: recording contract by the time they're done, or they're done. And I think he meant it this time."

"So who'll take care of Casa de Lane and preserve it in all its glory?"

"The cockroaches, same as always," Jane said. "See you in a few days."

"One thing," Daria said. "Know anyone who's got a sidecar?"

X X X X X

The adventures of Daria Faith Morgendorffer will continue. 


End file.
